And Even Nature Cried For This Lost Soul
by Liss1
Summary: ::gasp:: chapter 5. i'm alive, and coincidentally, so are these boys. it's short and a bit abstract, but...uh...i haven't written in close to 2 months, leave me alone.
1. one

**Author's Note: Blame my sociology teacher. She started talking about heroin addicts and the things they do for money. And bam, no notes were taken for the rest of the class, but this..._thing_ came about. It may or may not be continued. We'll see...**  
  
The gray skies wept with exhaustion, and steam rose hurriedly from subway grates. The cold was the kind of chill that didn't take long to infest itself in your bones, and took hours to rid yourself of. The park had been abandoned by its young and playful popluation for the day, no parent would let their child out in weather such as this. It was inhabited, however, by those who had a need for something. A need so strong that this weather was not the worst they had faced. On the outskirts of the park, by streetlamps and benches, were scattered clumps of the aching individuals. Those who had their needs fulfilled were leaning lazily against tree trunks or stretched out on park benches, staring euphorically into the rain that didn't seem to be soaking them.  
  
Roger was waiting, though. He hadn't been one of those glassy-eyed people since that afternoon, and it was killing him. He stood uneasily, bouncing on his heels and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He wore torn jeans and a thin, gray t-shirt. The gray of his shirt was just a little lighter than that of the sky. Whatever warmth he held onto was trapped to his body by a worn leather jacket, the zipper having broken months ago, and held tight to himself only by crossed, trembling arms. His detached companions showed no signs of being talented conversationalists, and so they were aware of the others existance, but not of the others voices or opinions. Prospective clients drove by slowly, passing up this endless oppurtunity one more time. Some sped closer to the curb, dousing the sidewalk and the feet of those standing on it with the polluted gutter rain collected on the side of the street.   
  
Roger didn't do this all the time. He only did it when he needed, and he was broke. It hadn't been bad lately, but when April died, he lost more than a girlfriend. He lost half his smack. It was harder now that she was gone. He had to go out more often, and in weather like this.   
  
A dark red (like blood, he briefly thought) sedan slowed to a stop mere feet away from him. The window closest to him lowered mechanically and a curt nod was directed towards him. He cautiously treaded closer to the door, glancing to his left and right nervously. Leaning in to the open window, the older man nodded again before he spun quickly, making sure no one would witness his departure. No one important, at least.   
  
The skies continued to sob as he slid into the vehicle and sunk into the seat, ashamed of what he was about to do. No. Yes, ashamed of what he was about to do, but also of what he had done, what he wasn't going to stop doing. 


	2. two

**Author's Note: Okay, So I guess I'm continuing it. I just sat down and wrote this because I thought I should...so it may not be as good as it should be, but I feel like I need to just get this done, then go over it all. But without feedback, as many of you may know, I am nothing. So yes...help me out here.**  
  
  
It was almost light again when Roger returned home, the milky black sky being substituted for a washed out bluish yellow one. He was glad to see the sunrise, if nothing else. His weary feet skidded and dragged along the familiar path, leading him towards warmth. Not the loft, not yet. Warmth was first a small plastic bag and its contents. His apartment was warmth only after his first source had been tapped.   
  
His hands nuzzled deeply into their respective pockets, he fingered the bills that had been so hastily shoved into them. He had done well, for what it was worth. He considered quickly the degrading acts he had been put through-no, he had put himself through-as compared to the amount of money he now kept in his small sanctuaries. To even his own dismay, he decided it was worthwhile. He wouldn't be in need for a few more days, and maybe he would find a different way to make some cash by then.   
  
The plastic homes to his beautiful, beautiful powder were slid gently into the right pocket of his pants, and the air seemed a little bit warmer as he strode back to the loft. Upon his arrival, the yellow tint of the sky having condensed itself into one large ball of heat crowning buildings across the city, Mark sat waiting. No. Yes, waiting, but no, he was standing. Standing and pacing, debating himself inwardly. When the door scraped open and he knew he wasn't alone, all his planned dialogues crumbled, twisted, and grew wings, flying out of his mind quicker than they had come. He didn't know what to say.  
  
Roger didn't plan on conversing upon his entrance. He planned only on finding a way to his bed and sitting down on it. Once there, he knew he would make use of his latest purchase and pass out before anyone got a chance to question him.   
  
He had forgotten, months ago, to hide his habit from the person who, unbeknownst to him, most likely cared more about him than anyone had in his entire life. When April died he had become careless, and Mark had discovered his weakness. (No, not weakness. Problem, maybe. Easily avoided or amended problem, but not weakness. Because a weakness was something you couldn't stop. Roger could stopped. Sometimes he wanted to, tried, even. But after days of unbroken skin and numb veins, he would start again. And when he started he would remember how fucking amazing it felt, and he wouldn't stop again for weeks.) Since then, he hadn't bothered to hide it, and it pained Mark more than anything. Roger didn't care though, or didn't know.   
  
The room they shared was strewn with needles and lighters and spoons, empty plastic bags and other mind altering chemicals like crack, LSD, various mixes. Mostly Roger's side of the room, though. Mark's was scattered with empty bottles, though. Bottles, pot, ecstasy now and then. He had his vices too, and Roger wouldn't let him forget it. The other roommates refused to step foot in the room now so poisoned by the boys and their needs.  
  
Mark was still pacing, however, and Roger's plans were deterred. As he opened the door, a pack of cigarrettes lay open on the counter next to him. He took one and lit it with the bluepurple lighter that had been sleeping next to his bags. Mark strode up to him and took the cigarrette away. He kept it as his own, as if he had been meaning to light one just minutes before hand, and had only just remembered when Roger actually did it.   
  
Unwilling to verbalize an explanation for his actions or nerves, he held up a roll of bills Roger had mistakenly placed under the wrong pillow. (In a flash he scolded himself for always forgetting who slept where when he was so high, so happy.) A horribly confused pair of smoldering gray eyes stared at him while he held the money in his left hand and took a brief drag of his cigarrette with the other.  
  
"Where the fuck did you get this?" 


	3. three

Mark stood firm, a trail of smoke risingswirlingdisolving from his cigarrette into the air. Roger's eyes couldn't help but follow the thing ribbon of dusky white. The question lingered, unanswered, much like the smoke. His head shook enthusiastically, a larger-scale replication of his seemingly eternal trembling.   
  
Without responding, Roger tread purposefully towards their room, intent only on losing himeslf in warmth. As he passed by his confused and slightly neurotic roommate, he made sure to whisk the money out of his hand and back into his possession.   
  
He was relieved, this would keep him warm and away from the park for at least a few more days. Mark followed him, extinguishing his cigarrette and flopping to a seated position on his bed, head in hands. Roger set himself to work, retrieving a syringe from the glass next to his mattress, tapping just enough powder into a spoon, sparking a lighter and holding it underneath. Mark sat, staring in amazement. More amazed that he wasn't used to it yet than the actual sight, really.   
  
Unable to watch with figures so sharp and harsh, Mark stalked over to Roger and took the lighter from him as soon as he had put it down to concentrate on filling his needle. He opened the small box on the crate by his bed and set up the small paper and green, ground leaves. He placed the herb in a careful organization, and grabbed a smaller bag of opium from inside the box. He meticulously laced one drug with the other and slowly rolled the paper into a tight cylinder, making sure both ends were secure.   
  
Roger was just shooting the soft, warm, wonderful liquid into his veins as Mark lit his own vice. Soon, everthing was blurrybeautifuleasy for both of them, and they didn't worry. At least not about each other.   
  
Mark stood slowly, giggling at his almostfall. He walked out of their contaminated room and to the kitchen, where he grabbed two beers before laying on the couch. It pained him to think about Roger, what Roger was doing to himself, why it would never work. And so he inhaled deeply again, the pain fading away just a little bit more with every breath. Opening one of the bottles, he gulped half of it down before pausing to inhale again. Only minutes later, Mark had finished both beers and his joint. He wound his way through mist and fog (probably just in his head, he realized with a chuckle) back to the refrigerator, where he could retrieve two more bottles of beer. He loved losing himself like this. The only drawback was the hypocrisy with which he was forced to face Roger.   
  
_"Stop doing this to yourself,"_ he would plead. _"At this rate, you're going to die before you hit twenty five,"_ he would scream. He tried anything, everything to get Roger to stop. That was in the beginning, immediately after he had discovered his roommate's addiction. After months of getting nowhere, he had reserved himself to a disappointed glance every once in a while, or a quiet _"You're killing yourself."_ barely audible to either of them.  
  
And half of Mark wanted Roger to stay the way he was. It was a terrible thought, he knew. But only on those rare nights when he was high would he crawl from his mattress to Mark's and into him. He would beg silently for comfort, understanding. And Mark would grant it to him, of course. He would hold Roger and stroke his hair and pretend that it was real. That Roger was aware of his own actions. That Roger wanted to be kissing him, touching him, making love to him. He could pretend that it was all real.  
  
But he knew it wasn't. And if the drugs weren't killing him, that was. 


	4. four

**Author's Note: Okay. I'm not exactly happy with the way this turned out, as some people know. So please let me know what _you_ think, seeing as you, the reader, are more important than I, the author.**  
  
  
Roger was completely empty, as far as Mark could tell. He was laying face up on his mattress, his eyes scanning the stained and chipping ceiling with an immense wonder. Mark was thoroughly wasted, his six empty bottles relaxing together in the corner to prove it, as well as the smoke that barely remained in the room and the seventh bottle, shattered into beautiful shiny slivers next to the couch.  
  
Sometimes it worried him that his tolerance was so high, maybe he had too much experience. Soon after those thoughts, though, he would realize that he was being silly, and remember to be thankful for his extreme consumption capabilities. He congratulated himself, too. _"Good job"_, He would think. _"Good fucking job for not becoming like him."_   
  
He wondered what exactly "like him" meant. What was like him? Making use of an outside force to rid him of his pain? If that was it, he was like him. He was just like him. (Not as bad, he would remind himself. Not nearly that bad. Never that bad.) And just because Mark hadn't run to heroin just yet...it didn't make him better than Roger, did it?   
  
Of course it did.   
  
Because he had tried it. He had tried it, once, and as soon as the cool steel had punctured his virgin veins, he knew it wasn't his drug. And maybe it had just been a bad experience. Maybe he was already too high or too desperate or the junk was cheaper than usual. Maybe it just wasn't the right time. Or maybe, he thought, some people were born for smack, and some weren't. Because he had tried it, and it was the fucking scariest experience of his life.   
  
The wind began whispering its secrets outside the loft windows, and the chill increased to a dull numbness. (Mark didn't notice the change, though, because he was already cold, and already numb. Not because of the beer or the weed, but because he always was. He was cold all the time, and numb all the time. He couldn't even tell the difference anymore.)   
  
The couch kept moving, and Mark just couldn't keep track of it. First it had been near a weak table, situated in the center of a dirty orange rug. But all of a sudden it had crawled to the corner, and walked itself into the kitchen. Mark laughed, because he didn't know what else to do. What was one supposed to do when their furniture was galavanting around like it owned the place? He giggled and spun around in circles, trying to figure out where it had run to now. It must be in the bedroom, he figured. It took him minutes to decide where his bedroom was, and by that point it was far too much of a hassle to actually enter. And so he sat. He sat with his legs crossed in the middle of the floor like he had when he was only a child.   
  
He quickly wondered who he was kidding. He still was a child. A child who didn't know anything about anything.   
  
He laughed again. Laughed so hard that he rolled backwards and onto his side. He didn't stop when he looked up to notice that the couch was still where it had been in the beginning, that maybe it hadn't been running about without his permission in the first place. He didn't stop when Roger appeared in the doorway that must have belonged to them, or when he stepped closer and lowered himself to Mark's level. He only stopped when Roger started kissing him and attempting to remove his shirt. And then, he only stopped so he could concentrate on kissing back.   
  
It never once crossed Mark's mind that this wasn't right, that this couldn't, or shouldn't, qualify as a friendship or anything else. It only crossed his mind that this was fun, and good, and satisfying. And he wasn't going to stop it. Not for anything in the world. 


	5. five

Days had passed, and the sun was exhausted due to his non-stop relay with the moon. So he asked the moon for a break and gratefully retired over the horizon. Roger was glad, as he had been anxiously waiting for dusk to give way to dark. Only when the street lamps became the only light source, bathing the buildings and sidewalks in their wan glow, did he feel safe enough to leave the apartment, thrust himself onto the needy streets and travel to and from his most sacred and betraying places.   
  
The door to his room opened hastily, but silently, Roger having perfected the trick to an unnoticed exit years ago. He wasn't ready for Mark to be waiting for him, though. He wasn't prepared to leave his room only to find his best friend sitting at the table, writing and smoking a cigarette. He wasn't usually home yet, it was only...what time was it? A red 11:47 glared at them from the clock on the window sill. He was home early.  
  
"Where are you going?" The question was innocent, curious. Just the kind of naive inquiry that drove Roger crazy with guilt. He had noticed, lately, it was getting more and more difficult to lie. Especially to Mark. Lying to him was the same as lying to himself, he decided.   
  
"I'm going...I have to go out. I'm going out."  
  
"Oh." He was accepting Roger's vague answer, although Roger thought that maybe this 'oh' was more one of disappointment than one of cooperation. Mark returned to his pages and scribbled what neither one was really sure could qualify as words.   
  
Just as the door was tugged open, Roger stood halfway out and turned only his head to pose a question, hoping to somehow improve his status in the eyes of the filmmaker. "Do you need anything?"  
  
Mark lifted his head and turned in his chair to face his oh-so-lost roommate. His eyebrows lifted themselves in pure curiosity. "Are you dealing?"  
  
The inevitable phrase seemed to have shocked both Roger's ears and Mark's lips, the silence absorbing such a random (yet so, so appropos) querie. Eyes squinted in thought as the musician attempted to produce a suitable reply. The red glare from the window morphed into an 11:49. A single syllable dispelled the stagnant echo of nothingness. "No." The truthful, nonchalant response was soon the only company Mark was left with, as the door had shut and the night had continued as it had been planned.   
  
Mark nodded, satisfied with the answer he had been supplied with, its lack of frills confirming its honesty. He took a drag of his cigarette and bowed his head, picking up his pencil and continuing where he left off. 


End file.
